In truth, Mama’s complaints appeared small at first glance, but threaded through it all was something stronger and sharper. It mourned the loss of freedom. Of being her own mistress. Of presiding over a household. Even if Mama hadn’t taken muchpleasure in overseeing the day-to-day of the household, it was a far cry from having no say at all. Now, her days were ordered by Lucille, and no matter how kind her eldest sister may be, there was no compensating for that forfeiture.
Staring at her reflection as though checking Molly’s handiwork, Phoebe imagined that life so clearly: she had thought of nothing else before accepting Mr. Godwin’s proposal. As a widow and her mother, Mama held at least some prestige within Lucille’s household. Phoebe would’ve held none.
However kindly offered, dependence was still dependence, and though some may argue that a wife was dependent on her husband, there was a symbiosis to their relationship that belied that idea; both man and wife bolstered the household in different manners, giving to one another. And that partnership granted a degree of freedom and power. To choose her own meals and social calendar, at the very least.
In the mirror’s glass, Mr. Godwin adjusted his collar with practiced ease, and an unexpected pang echoed in her heart. She had reduced him to a caricature, who was useful, irritating, and easily dismissed, yet here he stood, having protected her from the very fate that filled her mother’s pen with bitterness. Whatever his faults, Mr. Godwin hadn’t gloated over her need nor cast her aside after she had rejected him so thoroughly during his first proposal.
And the gentleman asked little in return. To be kind and patient with his patroness? Was that so very demanding when everyone ought to treat their fellow man with dignity and care?
A silent promise formed as Phoebe rose from the table and smoothed her skirts: she would meet this life with more generosity than she had granted him thus far. Refraining from open disdain was not the same as treating her husband with kindness—and she couldn’t even say that she had done a good job at the former.
Fastening her earring, Phoebe watched as her husband buttoned his Sabbath waistcoat, and she wondered if she ought to say something. Surely the resolve warming her heart deserved to be acknowledged, yet coldness had swept into their home the moment he stepped through their front door. Phoebe couldn’t name the source, though she didn’t think it was tied to her.
Of course, it was impossible to say for the gentleman boasted no emotion beyond a dogged devotion to his beloved Mrs. Whitcombe.
Phoebe dropped her hands and sent a silent chastisement inward. Hadn’t she just committed to being more compassionate? The vow was hardly a minute old before she bludgeoned it with harsh judgments. That was badly done!
Even if it was warranted.
Frowning at herself, Phoebe brushed that unkindness aside and committed—again—to keep a tighter rein on her emotions.
Snatching her bonnet from atop the wardrobe, she set it on her head as they finished their preparations. Mr. Godwin crossed to where his boots awaited him, and she reached for her gloves and smoothed them once before slipping them on. At some point, he paused to hold out her shawl, and she took it, draping it over her shoulders as though they had done this a hundred times before.
The silence was not uncomfortable—merely settled, shaped by shared space and repetition over the past three weeks.
Phoebe caught their reflection in the looking glass as she adjusted her bonnet: husband and wife, side by side, moving in quiet accord. Whatever else lay between them, they had found a way to exist together within these walls, their routine quickly settling into place without fanfare or effort.
Of course, it helped that neither felt the need to speak.
“Please do not contradict Mrs. Whitcombe today,” said Mr. Godwin.
Holding fast to her self-directed promise, Phoebe did not mention that the lady in question was far more eager to contradict or that he’d known his wife was a woman of strong opinions before he’d proposed to her, and instead she considered how to answer that criticism wrapped in a request. She certainly did not wish to raise Mrs. Whitcombe’s ire. Surely that was a decent foundation upon which to build.
“At the very least, please avoid speaking of Mr. Whitcombe again,” said Mr. Godwin.
“I mentioned him only once—”
“And it left an impression, Mrs. Godwin. His prolonged absences are a tender subject, and she does not care to be reminded that he would prefer being anywhere but in her company.”
Phoebe forced herself to breathe, her fingers clinging tightly to her new resolve. That solitary mention had been naught but a pleasantry, and had Mr. Godwin bothered to mention how tender the topic was, she wouldn’t have broached it.
“I will endeavor to do better,” she said, settling her shawl into place and standing at the ready. Mr. Godwin lifted his arm to her; their corridors were far too small for them to walk arm-in-arm, but she accepted the token for what it was.
Yet it left her once more at a loss.
Her husband was an odd man. Throughout their acquaintance (short though it may be), Mr. Godwin had proven himself an empty-headed fool; it was a miracle that his back was strong and hale with all the bowing and scraping he did. His expression was always vacantly eager, his words were always honeyed. Yet more and more, he seemed almost sensible. Intelligent, even.
“As I said before, one must tread carefully with Mrs. Whitcombe,” continued Mr. Godwin, lowering his voice as though the walls themselves might carry tales. “Take, forexample, the improvements you wish to make to the house. It would be wiser to frame it as a benefit to the parish rather than a personal preference. Do what you can to make her feel consulted and valued, rather than challenged. She is quite amenable when approached with care.”
Phoebe glanced at him sidelong and did not mention the alterations she’d already made in their bedchamber. How had he not noticed?
“I must flatter her before I paint a few walls?” she asked.
Mr. Godwin studied her for a moment, something unreadable flickering across his face.
“I am speaking from experience,” he said with far more gravity than she had thought him capable of. “You will win her over with flattery, not firmness.”
A soft huff escaped her before she could stop it. “One can hardly blame Mr. Whitcombe for seeking distance when one must go to such lengths to earn her approval over something so simple.”
